The same voice asked if injuries had been sustained on either side of the confrontation. As Beckert was giving another “more information later” nonanswer, Gurney noted the time on his computer screen. It was nine fifteen, meaning he needed to leave for his nine thirty meeting with Hardwick. Although he was curious about what might be revealed during the remainder of the press conference, he knew RAM programming was routinely archived for later viewing. He closed his laptop, grabbed his phone, and headed for the Outback.
Formerly a creaky old country store with a distinctly musty smell, Abelard’s had been taken over by a transplant from the Brooklyn art scene by the name of Marika. An abstract expressionist, she was an intense thirtysomething woman with a dramatic figure she wasn’t shy about showing off, numerous piercings and tattoos, and a startling array of hair colors.
When she wasn’t painting or sculpting, she’d been gentrifying the place. She’d removed the live-bait cooler and the displays of turkey jerky. She’d sanded and refinished the wide-board floors. She’d installed a new cooler full of things organic and free-range; a bin for locally baked breads; a high-end espresso machine; and four funky cafe tables with hand-painted chairs. The hammered-tin ceiling, pendant-globe light fixtures, and rough-hewn shelving had been left intact.
Gurney parked next to Hardwick’s classic muscle car—a red 1970 GTO. As soon as he entered the store he spotted Hardwick sitting in the back at one of the little round tables. He was wearing the black tee shirt and black jeans that had become his de facto uniform ever since he’d been forced out of the state police for offending his superiors too many times. This combative man with the pale-blue eyes of an Alaskan sled dog, a razor-keen mind, a sour wit, and a fondness for obscenity was definitely an acquired taste—one you could almost get to like if you didn’t choke on it first.
His muscular arms were resting on the table, which seemed too flimsy to support them. He was talking to Marika, who was laughing. Her hair that day was a spiky patchwork of iridescent pink and metallic blue.
“Coffee?” she asked when Gurney arrived at the table. Her striking contralto voice always got his attention.
“Sure. Double espresso.”
With an approving nod she headed for the machine. He took the chair opposite Hardwick, who was watching her departure.
When she disappeared behind the far counter, he turned to Gurney. “Sweet girl, not as batshit as she looks. Or half as batshit as
“Bad idea?”
Hardwick uttered a grunt of a laugh, picked up his mug of coffee, took a long sip, and laid it down with the care one might give an explosive. “Too many virtuous people involved. All with high opinions of their own visions of justice. Nothing in this world worse than a pack of crazy fuckers who know—absolutely
“You referring to the Black Defense Alliance?”
“They’re part of it. But only part. Depends on what you want to believe.”
“Tell me more.”
“Where should I start?”
“With anything that would explain Kline’s desire to get me involved.”
Hardwick thought for a moment. “That would probably be Dell Beckert.”
“Why on earth would Beckert want me involved?”
“He wouldn’t. What I mean is, Beckert might be Kline’s problem.”
Before going on, Hardwick made a face like the subject had a bad taste. “I know what the fucker was like when I worked with him ten years ago in the Bureau. That was before he became the big deal he is today. But even then he was on his way. See, that’s the thing—Beckert is always
“From what I’ve heard, his reputation is more law-and-order than scumbag.”
“Like a lot of high-class scumbags, he’s good at nurturing and polishing that reputation. Beckert has an instinct for turning everything to his advantage, even negative shit. Maybe I should say,
“Like what?”
“Like his family life. Back then, it was a fucking mess. His son, who was maybe thirteen at the time, was a nasty little bastard. Hated his father. Did everything he could to embarrass him. Painted swastikas on police cars. Told Child Protective Services that his father was selling confiscated drugs. Then the kid tried to set fire to a Marine recruiting office, probably because his father had been a marine. That’s when Dad made his move. Sent the kid off to a super-tough behavior-modification boarding school somewhere down South—more like a prison than a school. And then . . .” Hardwick inserted a dramatic pause.
Gurney stared at him. “And then . . . what?”
